


reduction/infinitization

by Jessicaa



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, The Grand Unslam, Unlimited Tacos (Blaseball Team)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessicaa/pseuds/Jessicaa
Summary: Suddenly they weren’t the person they were before. They wanted nothing more than to go back to that person, but as much as the glass cracked below them, this Form was trapped.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	reduction/infinitization

**Author's Note:**

> Hi my mind is running from the Inside a Blaseball. I am typing directly into ao3. I guess the devs just liked our Dovenpart doppelganger wiki lore so much they tried to make it canon /lh. I promise I will come back to this and clean it up hehe just Go With It!
> 
> I give this fic the alternate name of "Lee Davenport Is So Good At Glitching The Game That They Mess Up Their Own Plotline". Anyways, please let Dove out of the Shadows we miss them dearly <3

* * *

~~Lee Davenport.~~

~~Lee Dovenpart.~~

~~Lee Devenport.~~

Wyatt Dovenpart.

* * *

Don't slow down your arm, face your palm towards third, snap your wrist, watch the ball curve curve curve oh and it's going up up up and it's out of the park! 

If out of the park had meant the ball soared into the roaring crowds, or into the field behind the Memorial Stadium, none of this would matter. That is, it would just be a surprising comeback from a terrible pitcher. 

Instead, Lee Davenport, at the third top of the fifteenth of the seventy-third game in the third season, pitched what they didn't realize would tear the Tacos apart. (Together?) They blinked and were looking on from the Bench, blink and Doyle hit a single, blink and they couldn't see a thing in front of them besides the most vibrant fuchsia chamber, spanning as far as they could make out with a Microphone stand in the middle, cord splayed across the floor. (What was the middle? This room didn't end how did it have a mi-)

"Lee?" echoed through the hollowness of the room.

They fumbled towards the Microphone before everything, nothing, the blinding sparkle of pink glass broke through the voice.

"Lee? Throw the damn ball!" Basilio Preston scolded from left of center.

They didn't question this (it felt like a command more than anything else anyways), even though they remembered throwing the ball a while back. Doyle had hit a grand slam and the home side continued jeering before the inning continued. But something too heavy felt like it was tearing a hole through their hand.

Davenport tapped their side thrice with their glove, as they always did before a throw. Another ball, heavier this time, was released, now with a trailing stream of binary held up in thin air itself by waves of interlacing greens and purples.

As soon as it was out kf their grasp, Davenport keeled to their knees gripping onto their good hand as if they thought they pitched it alongside the ball.

A twinkling pattern of stars, and bright bursts of pink created a scene of fireworks inside their closed eyelids, although they were wide open. Nothingness pulled at the back of their mind and engraved the sound of cracking glass to hold onto for later; what else could be perceived?

As the ball soared, digital forms ripped apart the air between the mound and home plate as if a zipper bursting open. Flowing colors streamed out of the thin, developing Tear and gripped onto Davenport’s hand as the origin for freedom. 

Doyle’s bat cracked in half upon impact and the ball was pull pull pulled straight up, the numbers made material from Lee still trying to keep up, and the same stitch in the sky cracked along the floor of the fuchsia chamber, directly under the Microphone stand. 

A soft, soft whisper from gods know where. “If you let it inside, you don't survive,” and Davenport's hypostasis was engulfed in a storm of serenity, while all they wanted was a distraction from the shrill Feedback above them. 

They didn't move since they fell to the turf, just an outline of themself becoming hollower every minute that ticked past, and went back, and stood still, and passed once again. 

Standing back in the empty room Davenport continued to move forwards. They scrutinized the emptiness one last time to see if they were truly alone, and promptly slid their foot across the tinted glass below them, at this point in the center of instability. Careful not to put too much weight on either leg, they kneeled to the ground and ran their hand softly atop the rough glass. A faint prick, and with that they felt their stomach empty as they fell ten stories in an instant. The game came rushing back to their mind, evicting the numbing cover over their memories, sense of self, physical body, even though they were still looking down on it.

Antonio Wallace, Workman Gloom, Esme Ramsey, Morrow Doyle, that's what they were trying to focus on Below. 

Oh, this was supposed to be an important game, wasn't it? Pastor had said something like that, probably, although it's not like he even knew what Blaseball was. Yeah, yeah that was an important game, but. But all they could feel from down there was screaming and thrashing to get back inside this body, but, but they couldn't. 

It was better this way, they supposed. The Microphone in front of them was oddly calming, an easy way to placate fear even if it hurt just a little to reach it, an easy object to ground themselves on. There was so much noise Under the fuschia, and from here they could see everything, hear nothing besides static.

Davenport strained their eyes on the field. Nobody was moving. Doyle had reached home, the next Thief to bat was leaning against the wall, tapping their foot. 

Davenport’s head jerked up and made direct eye contact with themself Above. A mass of corrosion rushed to cover the hand (barely recognizable as flesh, rather a jumbled gray ball of numbers), bandages over a wound that would only Tear apart further. 

The corrosion split, and the Davenport Below got back to their feet. Flexing their hand slowly, they grabbed a new ball, the last one (two?) absorbed into the Tear they had unzipped so simply. Crystals eroded through the surface of their skin and rays of light peeking out from inside the Tear reflected vivid rainbows onto them. 

Above, they looked back towards the Mic stand, sighed, and stood up. Relaxed, even with the blinding sparkle of glass coming from the other Davenport’s hand, even with the ring of the floor holding them up shattering. Suddenly they weren’t the person they were before. They wanted nothing more than to go back to that person, but as much as the glass cracked below them, this Form was trapped. 

The one prick had stopped bleeding, so they reached out to the Microphone once again. Tap. Tap tap. 

“Anyone there?” echoed through the room, amplifying amplifying static frozen in space and they Lifted up up where they felt a Tear across their chest once again, leaving a shell on the field and two Lee's elsewhere.

* * *

Gloom was back on the mound.

Everything felt empty besides the weight of the vibrant glass jutting out of their lower arm. 

The team finished the third fifteenth inning.

Game Over.

His hands shaking, Basilio Mason returned to the dugout and sat across from Davenport. He shook his head as if to prompt dialogue, but they stared forwards and said nothing. 

Davenport stood, still tapping the Microphone, eyes shut from the color’s strain after this long.

The tear engulfed the rest of Davenport. Once it finally Corrupted, that's where they felt home. Where they were tasked with replacing Wyatt Mason and instead clung to emptiness to keep him safe.

Basilio glanced down at their hands after his calmed. He could not deny that Lee was gone.


End file.
